Stepbrother Fallen

by Aya Fukunishi

  I creep through the silent gym until I find a sliding door leading out onto the lawn, and wind my way through a maze of flower arrangements back towards the house. As I pass the entrance to the outbuilding I look back and see Rafe sitting at the piano again, sipping his whiskey and taking a pull on a cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the tirade of abuse Lin still throws at him as he looks down at the keys with a smile.

  Who the fuck is this guy?

  Rafe has been here a week now, and he's spent so much time in his room that sometimes it almost feels as if things are back to normal. For hours at a stretch I can forget he's even in the house, but the illusion is always shattered by a sudden blast of Bowie or The Stones from Rafe's portable turntable, one of the few things he brought with him, along with a stack of old records. I've knocked on his door a couple of times to ask him to turn it down – nicely, too – but every fucking time his response was only to smile and crank the volume higher.

  The atmosphere in the rest of the house is... weird. Since the moment he arrived and immediately bolted to his room Rafe hasn't spoken more than a few words to anyone. He only emerges from his pit a couple of times a day to raid the fridge, and twice he's vanished in the evening only to return in the early hours of the morning, stinking of smoke and liquor with no explanation as to where he's been.

  Mom and dad just have no idea how to deal with him, and I'm not at all surprised. After all, Rafe is 18, and legally an adult. According to the terms of his probation he has to live at this address, but apart from a check in call to his parole officer once each week there's nothing else he has to do; nothing about playing nice with the family, helping out with the housework or posing for family photos. He just has to exist.

  The problem, I think, is that mom and dad never had to deal with a problem child. I'll be the first to admit that I was always a boring kid, never getting into trouble and never talking back. I was always a solid B+ student, always finished my homework before watching TV, and I've never once considered anything as crazy and rebellious as a tattoo or piercing. Just like the contents of my wardrobe I've always been nice, but unremarkable.

  Jesus, I'm boring.

  It's true. I'm not just being hard on myself. I never really thought about it until Rafe rolled in with his tight t-shirts, cigarettes and rock music, but now it's becoming painfully obvious that I'm nothing more than a background character in my own life. If anyone was ever bored enough to make a movie based on my life they could just cast an extra in my role. Or a cardboard cut-out draped in a bland sweater.

  "Madison! Are you listening to me?"

  I snap out of my daydream and realize that mom's looking at me funny. "Did you say something? Sorry, I was miles away. I was just thinking about... something."

  Mom gives me an exasperated look. "I don't know what to do with you guys recently. I've got Rafe skulking away in his room, your father hiding in the den with his TV and you drifting off to another world on the sofa. What's up, honey? You've been out of sorts for days now. Anything you wanna talk about?"

  Oh yeah, mom, let's chat. My new stepbrother is so annoying he makes blood squirt out my ears, but whenever I play with myself he pops into my head uninvited, and I get so wet I feel like I'm riding a water slide. What do you recommend?

  I can imagine how much of a mess mom's head would make when it exploded if I actually said that. She's already on the edge of sanity just having Rafe in the house, but if I told her I couldn't stop thinking about hate fucking him? Jesus. "Ummm, noooo," I say. "I'm just a little distracted is all. You know, with Rafe in the house. It's just a little odd to have a new brother at my age. Feels a little weird, y'know?"

  Mom slumps beside me on the sofa, obviously relieved to see it isn't just her who thinks the situation is strange. "Tell me about it. I just don't know what I'm going to do with that boy." She takes my hand and squeezes it reassuringly. "Oh, you know what I'm like. I need things to be a certain way, and I get a little... well, stressed, I guess, when things get complicated. You know I've always been like that." She smiles warmly. "I just thank the lord you never gave me any trouble. I can't imagine how I would have survived if you'd been a sullen kid."

  I bristle a little at the 'compliment'. I know mom means it in a nice way, but right now I really don't want to be reminded of the fact that I'm the low fat cottage cheese at the buffet table of life. After meeting Rafe I'm kinda beginning to see the appeal of the wickedly sweet and fattening chocolate cake at the dessert table.

  Mom lets go of my hand, stands and straightens out the wrinkles in her dress, something she always does when she's feeling a little out of sorts and OCD. "Well, I guess there's nothing to be done about it. Your father won't lift a finger to help, so we're just going to have to hope Rafe will eventually get used to us."

  I suddenly feel sorry for mom. I've given her a pretty hard time about her obsessive behavior over the last month, but only now am I realizing just how uncomfortable she really is with him in the house. It seems like Rafe's presence is, to mom, like an itch she can't scratch.

  Well, I can't do anything to fix mom's neuroses, but maybe I can try to get Rafe to cut her some slack.

  "Hey, do you want me to see if Rafe will join us for dinner?" I ask.

  Mom smiles and shakes her head. "Thanks, sweety, but I can't imagine there's anything you could say that would drag that boy out of the little fort he's built up there. It's sweet of you to offer, though."

  I won't take no for an answer. "I really don't mind, mom. Just set a place for him and I'll see what I can do." I'm already on my feet and making for the staircase.

  "Well, thanks honey," mom replies. "I expect it'll be empty come dinner time, but it's nice of you to try."

  I slowly climb the stairs, wondering how I can possibly convince Rafe to stop acting like a prick. For the hundredth time in the last week I feel the anger begin to rise inside me. This is a guy who was given a fucking get out of jail free card, and instead of spending a year cooling his heels in a cell he's been given a free room in a lovely home with his real father, one of the nicest people I know, and my mother, who... well, she's a little screwed up, but she does her best.

  And how has Rafe repaid their hospitality? He's locked himself away for a week without a fucking word. He eats our food, drinks our water and uses our fucking power without so much as a nod of appreciation. That's just a douche move.

  OK, settle down, Maddy. You know what happens when you speak to him with a hot head.

  I can hear the music blaring away from all the way down at the foot of the stairs. I can't name the singer, but I know it's that sad, depressing guy who sang over the end credits of Good Will Hunting. Elliott something?

  By the time I reach the door the music is almost loud enough to shake the walls. How can he stand to listen at that volume? I rap on the door and wait, preparing my ears for the onslaught of sound as soon as the door opens.

  No answer. I knock again, louder this time, but still the door remains closed.

  Oh, fuck this. This is my house. I'm going in. I push open the door.

  The room is empty. At the desk by the open window a record spins on the turntable, but apart from that there's no movement. I'm still seething with the background anger that's bubbled beneath the surface for a week, so I storm across the room and take out my frustration on the turntable, yanking the needle from the grooves with a loud, painful squeal followed by blissful silence. For a moment I think about tossing the record out the window like a Frisbee, and I even draw back my arm to prepare to throw it, but I stop myself when I realize I have no earthly clue how much records are worth. I've never really thought about it, but I think I remember reading somewhere that some of them can be valuable. I'd hate to toss this one out the window only to find myself paying Rafe $500 when it turns out it was a rare collector's item.

  "Not an Elliott Smith fan, I guess?" comes a voice behind me.

  I spin around, the record still clutched in me hands, to find Rafe standing in the doorway o
f the en suite bathroom. Just like the first time I saw him he leans casually against the door frame, but this time is... different. He stands naked from the waist up, his bottom half barely concealed by a soft white towel that just about makes it around his waist, but is small enough to leave a slit that runs down his thigh. The slightest movement this way or that would expose him completely.

  I can feel my heart thump in my chest, and beneath my conservative good girl clothes I'm painfully aware that all manner of embarrassing, shameful things are happening to my body: things that I absolutely should not be feeling while looking at the guy who sleeps in the room next door. Now I've actually seen the monster he's hiding under that towel it's even worse.

  "Errrm..." I mumble, my mind suddenly blank as to why I've come to Rafe's room. I'm trying my best to keep from staring at his glistening wet pecs, but despite my best efforts my eyes are drawn to the depression between them, running down to his tight six pack, and beneath those firm, bunched and gleaming muscles the towel, slung low around his waist, hiding his –

  Oh fuck. Speak, Maddy!

  "I just came to see... I mean, to ask if you'd like to join us at the shower. I mean table! Dinner table! Mom's cooking, ummm, food."

  I tail off as Rafe grabs another towel from a hook on the door and begins drying his hair. As he lifts his arms I can see a large, black tattoo on the inside of his left bicep. It's difficult to see with the towel in the way, but from across the room it looks like musical notes. I don't know the terms, but it looks like like it might be sheet music: a few notes arranged in a little box, or a grid. He turns towards the mirror and I see a second piece of ink stretched across his rippling muscles, some kind of tribal pattern curved across his left shoulder and down to the middle of his back. I can't drag my eyes away from it.

  "Nah," he replies, his voice a little muffled by the towel. "I'll eat my dinner up here."

  "Please come down," I plead, still staring hungrily at his body. "Mom really wants us to eat as a family. Just this once. Please?"

  Rafe tosses the towel to the ground and walks over to his wardrobe. "Not my family, Princess. Definitely not my mom. No thanks."

  "Oh. Yeah. I mean... well, you know what I mean. Come and eat, please? I know it'll make my mom happy if you'd make an effort to join in."

  Rafe turns to me sharply. "Look, Princess, I don't want to play nice with your family. I'm only here because it's court ordered, and my choice is between here and jail. You getting me? I don't want to toss a football with your dad, and I don't want to share a fucking Jenny Craig stew with your mom. I just want to be left alone. Understand?"

  I just don't know how I can possibly respond to such needless hostility. I can't figure out why Rafe is so mean, or how he doesn't understand how much easier life could be if he'd just let a few people in and quit being such an angry asshole. It baffles me.

  "OK," I say, doing my best to stay calm. "I hope you have a great time sitting up here alone with your food. If you change your mind you'll find a place laid for you at the table, with the other normal humans." I make my way to the door, determined not to look back for a final glimpse of Rafe's body.

  "Madison, wait," he says, just as I'm about to step through the door. As I turn I imagine him apologizing for his tone, explaining that he's just had a rough time lately, and promising that he'll try harder from now on to be friendly. All this flashes through my mind in an instant, and by the time I face him I'm fully expecting him to repeat those words exactly.

  "Elliott Smith?" he says, holding out a hand.

  I frown, confused. "Huh?"

  "The record in your hands? Give it back."

  I look down and notice what I'm still holding. I'd completely forgotten. "Oh, yeah, sorry." I reach out to hand it back, but then a thought strikes me and I draw back my hand. I'm holding a fucking bargaining chip right here.

  "Actually, you know what? No. I won't give it back unless you come downstairs and share a nice meal with me and my parents like a normal, non-sociopathic human being."

  Rafe's eyes darken as he sees I'm not kidding. "I'm serious, Princess. Don't fuck with my things." He reaches out his hand and waits for me to give him the record.

  "I'm serious, Rafe. Don't fuck with my family. My parents have worked really hard to give you an opportunity here, and if you don't appreciate what you've been given you can at least fake it. You can have the record back after dinner."

  Rafe moves quickly, bolting towards me and grabbing me by the wrist before I can react. I try to switch the record to my other hand, but Rafe reaches out and grabs that wrist too. With a step forward he pushes me back, pressing me against the wall and raising my arms up above my head. Now my wrists are pressed together he has no problem holding both of them in one large hand, freeing up the other to pluck the record from my unresisting fingers.

  I can think of only two things I could do. The first is to drive my knee firmly into his balls and send him collapsing to the ground in a weeping, whimpering heap. It's damned tempting, but I discount the idea almost immediately. The second option is this:

  I raise one foot and run it quickly up the inside of Rafe's leg until I reach the bottom of his towel. When I feel the fabric against my feet I clench my toes, gripping the towel between them, and tug my foot down sharply. The loose towel falls away from Rafe's waist and suddenly he's naked and exposed. I look down at the gap between our bodies and almost gasp at the size of the dark, veined tool hanging between his legs. It looks even bigger up close. It all happens too quickly for my conscious mind to react, but I hear the message sent by the treacherous, dangerously horny subconscious part of my brain loud and clear: we know what you'll be dreaming about tonight.

  I predicted – and hoped – that Rafe would be so shocked at losing his towel that he'd release his grip, and I was right. I'm suddenly free as Rafe falls to a crouch to retrieve the towel, but what happens next I could never have predicted.

  Most guys would use the towel to cover their cock. It's almost an instinctive reaction to being on display, to use anything at hand to cover up that most private and sensitive of areas. Rafe, though, doesn't do that. The moment he grabs the towel his hand moves to his side and around to his butt. His thick, long cock bounces loose against his thigh, but all he seems to care about – above his swinging manhood, and above the record that breaks in two as he drops it to retrieve the towel – is covering one particular ass cheek, and in the split second my eye catches it as he crouches I see why.

  Across Rafe's otherwise perfect, tight and toned left ass cheek runs a scar, deep and straight. I only caught it for a split second before he covered it up, but as soon as I catch sight of his eyes I knew I've gone too far. That was something nobody was meant to see.

  "Rafe, I –"

  "Go," Rafe snaps, pointing towards the door. He stands, still naked. "Get out."

  I can feel yet another now familiar blush rise towards my face as I hurry for the door. "I'm sorry," I whisper mournfully as I pull the door closed behind me, wishing I'd never decided to walk through it.

  Penny and I are back at Manda's again for the second Saturday in a row. She usually only throws her parties once or twice a month, but tonight is a special occasion. Everyone who's anyone is here, and on a mission to get wasted and laid.

  Last Saturday, about an hour after I left the party, things got a little... weird.

  "Oh my God, Mad, you should have seen it!" gushes Penny as we look at the damage. "It's amazing nobody died!"

  Penny's right. I'm looking at the wreck of the kitchen, and if anyone had been in here when the bathtub fell...

  So here's what happened. Sometime early in the evening during last week's party somebody had gone into Manda's dad's bathroom and decided to have a little fun. They put the plugs in the bathtub and the his and hers basins, turned the faucets on full and got the hell out of there. Why? Who the fuck knows. Some people just want to watch the world burn, as Batman's butler Alfred would say.

  The bathtub is one of
those big sunken marble things set into the floor. It's big enough for three people and probably weighs as much as a fucking car, and it's fed from some kind of special water tank on the roof that pushes the water out fast enough to fill the thing in about two minutes. Whoever did it probably thought it'd just end in a bit of annoying water damage, but after the water had flowed for a few hours it was enough to collapse the floor, and take the tub with it. Right into the middle of the kitchen.